Heart of a Tool: End of Days
by markofthemoros
Summary: An angsty alternate ending to my story Heart of a Tool, and it's exactly as bad as it sounds and I'm going to Hades for this, I swear! Warnings: angst, dark themes, violence, physical and psychological torture, slavery, dehumanizing, abuse, character death. No sexual content.


**AN: First of all, PLEASE NOTE that this is a one-shot alternate ending to my story Heart of a Tool. So if you haven't read that, please do, before you read this, because this is going to make no sense if you haven't read the original.**

 **This story actually came to be so that I received a comment by amaiuna on AO3 suggesting an angsty alternate ending to Tool where things just basically go deep south. Well, ask and you shall receive. It coud have basically every single warning label latched onto it except "underage" and "rape". It's just pure hurt. Enjoy.  
**

 **Warnings: angst, dark themes, violence, physical and psychological torture, slavery, dehumanizaing, abuse, character death. No sexual content.**

 **Beta read by Elillierose**

* * *

Noctis felt dizzy. With fear, with grief. A sideways glance was thrown at the guard holding onto his right arm; its red eyes were fixed onto something in front of them, ignoring the captive's turmoil and shuddering pants. His feet sunk into the sand, making him fumble with his steps; he was given a rough yank that forced him to stand up straight as they must have thought he tried to wriggle on purpose.

As if he could get out.

The grated steps leading onto the stage clanged hollowly under their feet; the high pitch of metal on metal as the guards' boots landed onto it stung his ears. The concreteness of it, of this, it brought the bile into his throat, and he tried to hold it down with shaky intakes of breath. The blue eyes traced the outline of the ledge in anticipation as he was forced to stand under the noose. Lip quivering, he tried not to whine as he felt the hemp against his skin. If it was going to end like this, if this was really it for him, hell, at least he would take his dignity with him.

He heard the mockery in that bastard of an Emperor's voice as it demanded him for his last words; what had he expected, anyway? For him to pay him some respect?! No. No, that man had proven himself incapable of something like that. The way he had mass-murdered innocent people in every corner of the earth the claws of Niflheim had reached; how he had sent a lapdog with enough squadrons to overthrow a small town after them; how he used his friends' lives to blackmail him… No. Aldercapt had no honor. What had Noctis been thinking, expecting – hoping? – that this would be any different?

He would die scared and alone, and he didn't dare think what sacrilege would be done to his body after that. He remembered the bastard's threat from the last night, and the bile threatened to rise again. Why was this happening?! What more did he have to endure, hadn't he had more than his fair share already?! The words were lost on the tip of his tongue as he fought the nausea brought by the rope on his skin.

"You have nothing to say?" That glee in that despicable voice! Noctis had to bite his teeth to hold onto what remained of his cool. He wasn't going to allow them the pleasure to see him crack. He would face this with pride, showing the Niff filth that he still had some, despite all that they had done. And one day, Noctis swore, swore to the Six, one day that man would pay. Would pay for all those lives he had destroyed!

His jaw clenched as the order was given and the noose tightened around his neck. He could feel the burns the rope rubbed into his sensitive skin, and a strangled sob slipped out in a shuddering gasp. He couldn't stop his teeth from chattering as the blood, now infused with adrenaline, coursed through his veins with maddening force. His ears thumped as shiver after shiver ran down his spine as he waited. Waited for what he knew was coming: the sensation of falling, and then the sharp yank that would end his life.

Maybe, like this, _maybe_ at least his friends would be shown mercy? He recalled their faces through the shuddering breaths of terror. Ignis' gentle smile as the man watched him gobble up something he had just taken from the oven, and Gladio's self-satisfied smirk and lazily crossed arms over the chest. In his mind, he saw the usual goofy look on Prompto's face as the blond got scolded for something, the way he would scratch the back of his neck to brush it off. Prompto… Maybe there would be a time when he could apologize to him. At least Noctis hoped so.

And his dad. He would be with his father soon, and that thought brought him a little comfort at least. He was sure his dad had stood tall in front of it all; he could – would – do so, too. He would be with his father soon. But there was one Noctis hoped he'd gotten the chance to see once more. Luna. He would have wanted to be with her, to tell her how he felt, hopefully to be able to make her happy. To think that the whole marriage proposal had been the instigator of all of this… It felt like a far-away dream to him. A distant memory. 'Luna… I'm sorry I couldn't make you happy.'

Then there was the sudden creak of metal, the sensation of falling. The pain had barely time to register before all was lost into darkness.

* * *

The stench of sweat and blood and testosterone lingered around his aching body as a stale veil. He hardly noticed it anymore, though, so accustomed was he with the smell. His soaked hair clung to the broad shoulders, stuck to his skin like miniature tentacles. Teeth grit as he forced forth the strength to push the bar up one more time. 240 lbs. Twenty-fourth time. His arms protested as the brute pushed himself almost past his limits. Each nerve fiber, each muscle end felt the tension.

"Enough." The voice broke Gladiolus' concentration, the massive weight swayed dangerously as he almost lost his bearings. He was spared from the weight coming down and crushing his ribcage when assistants jumped in from both sides to lift the bar back onto the rack, and the brute got to sit up, giving his abused arms a few good shakes. It didn't stop them from trembling, and the vile taste of copper and bile coated his tongue.

The trainer's, or Ringmaster's, as they were supposed to call him, pen scribbled lazily as he peered down into his notes. "300 for this one, then he'll finish with five miles," he spelled out instructions, speaking more to the assistants training him than to the brute, but Gladiolus understood. He had heard it enough times. 300 seconds to recover, then a five-mile run. Trying to ignore the shaking of his arms, he tried to call upon some yet unspent reserves within to be able to pull through with this. He didn't feel like facing the consequences of a failure, not today. Leaning back, he straightened himself to lay on the lifting bench. He had that five minutes. He would take them.

"And take him to be cleaned up. This one's going in tomorrow," the man with the notebook called over his shoulder as he made his way to the next nameless, faceless slave.

The former king's shield's attention had piqued at that notion. 'Hmph. Again, huh?' It seemed like he'd become a regular. This was the third time now. Since he had been introduced to the ring three weeks ago, the crowd had seemed to love him. Love how he… killed people. He tried to not feel worse about that than he already did. Being subjugated into this. This… torture. This wasn't humane. This was everything but. Gladio couldn't believe that tournaments like these still existed, not in a civilized nation. Such cruelty shouldn't have been possible. But here he was. So much for the civilization then.

"Gladiator. Your time's up," one of the assistants, this one called Milo, tapped the screen of his wrist watch impatiently. "Get up." Grunting, the large man gathered himself to get onto his feet, and followed the two to the running track. It almost didn't bother him anymore, how docilely he behaved. How easily he was pushed around. In the beginning, he had fought, refused them at every chance given, had been as difficult as he could. To spite them if nothing else. He had been punished; a few newer scars adorned his abdomen as a reminder of his former will. But it had been Ignis who had convinced him to surrender. That he couldn't die like this. Gladiolus sighed. More than once had the brunet sneaked out of his division's dormitories to patch his wounds when he had been beaten into pulp as punishment for disobedience. His words had been so broken, so desperate as he had cleaned him up, bandaged the worst lacerations the best he could. "All we have left now is each other." That's what Ignis had told him the second time that had happened. That cracked voice almost hadn't sounded like the man; a voice so lost didn't become him.

Since Noct had been killed – 47 days ago – it really had been just the two of them. They had taken Prompto away the day after the execution. They never saw the kid again, and sometimes he wondered what had happened to the blond. The next day, he and Ignis had been moved to the gladiator trainees' quarters, and it had begun. Days of "teaching" them submission. Of working them to the point of exhaustion and then some. Of turning them into heartless killing machines. For the entertainment of the sick folk that enjoyed this shit. God, what the fuck was wrong with these people?!

He had fought it. He had fought it so much. This went against everything he valued, all his morale deemed this degrading, in so many ways. But it was Ignis who had persuaded him into giving in to it. For the sole purpose of survival. "What's there left to live for?" he had spat at the man when he had again wiped the blood off him; that time he had been whipped. For breaking a wrist of one of the trainers. Ignis' reply had taken a moment. He had said that survival, at any cost, came first, after that one could plan for revenge. Gladio never believed that to be the whole truth. He had known the man long enough to know Ignis was scared. Scared of being left all alone in this hell. And because of that thought, he had decided to listen. He had cast away his pride, his will, had surrendered himself to be that animal that killed men for others' amusement. For Ignis' sake.

As his feet thumped against the rubber of the track, he found movement surprisingly easy. He felt tired, although he had only just started, but running didn't seem overwhelming this time. He had had those days, too, when he would just collapse. His legs would just give out on him as he retched at the sidelines. He went as slowly as he dared, but Milo or the other whatshisface didn't make a comment about that. They let him finish at his pace and surprisingly didn't mind as he dropped down to light jogging for the last straight strip before crossing the finish line and bending over to pant, hands on his knees and sweat pouring down his face and neck. He had been showed some lenience by the assistant trainers lately, and little as Gladio liked that thought, it must have been due to his more amenable behavior. Or just his reputation in the ring, or both.

"Alright, big guy, let's get you smelling nice and fresh for tomorrow then," Milo jerked his thumb over his shoulder, to point towards the quarters of the heavy weights. Drawing in a couple more deep intakes, Gladiolus pushed himself up to stand properly, took the offered towel and headed for the showers.

.

.

.

The horns blasted, and he could hear the excited murmur of the crowds outside. The weight of a Zweihänder on his right hand brought a sense of familiarity. The sword had seen better days, but it would have to do.

His foot fidgeted with adrenaline. When the doors would open, he would have to be ready to take the other out, or be taken out. It got his heart beating faster, his ears thumped with the pressure as the fanfare sounded and the doors of the arena begun to pull open in front of him.

His opponent would face him from the other side of the sandbox ring. Gladiolus stomped into the public's view, peering over the field to the other set of open doors, and the figure that stepped out. "Oh shit!" 'No. No, no, no, no, not him!'

Ignis' steps had halted as he recognized the man on the other side of the field; a shocked gasp slipped out unguarded.

The former shield couldn't breathe; he felt his hands tremble, refusing to calm down as the severity of the situation dawned on him. He looked at the man like he saw him for the first time. The training rags he usually met the man in did no justice to this Ignis that he was now facing. The training had done wonders to his physique. The toned muscle was now well-defined and shaped him clearly, he had gained wing muscles onto his underarms. Lightweight armor similar to Gladio's own clad his torso and shins, the glasses were gone and he was wearing a helmet that covered his head and the back of the neck. He looked like a true warrior. "Iggy?"

"Gladio…" the man had come closer, looking dumbstruck and disbelieving. Gladio could read the silent anguish from the man's face.

"Gladiators!" came the Ringmaster's voice through the speakers. "Greetings to the Emperor!" As if in a dream, the both of them raised their respective weapons – Gladio with the sword, Ignis with his choice of spear – above their heads in the direction of the royal box. "Greetings to each other!" Gladio's lip spread into a broken smirk as he raised his blade again, this time to his friend.

"S'up," he smirked mirthlessly. Ignis caught on, though, and replied,

"And to you."

"… I'm not gonna fight you, Iggy," the larger man told him simply, shaking his head. "No way." The brunet looked darkly satisfied.

"If there ever was something I could count on," he almost chuckled.

"Begin!" Neither of them made a move as the command sounded; the way they stood down was like a middle finger raised at them all. The crowds noise was rapidly replaced with booing as the excitement was denied of them. Ringmaster's static-morphed voice held rage as it announced, "Fight, or you'll be shot!"

Shaking his head sadly, when faced with the inevitable, Gladio dropped his sword; the moistened amber met the slightly shocked emerald. "Do it, Ig. There's no need for both of us to die."

"What manner of frivolity…?! Pick that up. Maybe… maybe we could reach a draw," Ignis nearly hissed as he pointed at the discarded weapon.

The other simply shook his head, spreading his arms to appear completely vulnerable. "No. I'm not doing it, Iggy. Not to you. But if you kill me, at least you'll live."

"…Gladio–"

"Just do it, Ig."

" –what makes you think I would want to survive like this?" Ignis flung the spear to the side, far out of reach; the helmet followed suit as he tore it off, looking disgusted. His ribcage rose and fell rapidly as he panted out his building adrenaline rush.

"'The hell are you doing?! Now the both of us–"

"Yes," Ignis nodded solemnly, his face eerily content, almost satisfied as he, too, spread his arms as a sign of forfeit. The brute chuckled hollowly as he understood,

"What happened to survival at any cost?"

"There is a line." An inkling of a sad smirk adorned his chapped lips. "Let's go to where we're needed, what say you?"

A confusion washed over the older man's face before he understood. Grim as that thought was, it brought him odd comfort at that moment. "Yeah. I guess we've kept His High-ass waiting, huh?" In the distance, the soldiers were given orders to take aim; an involuntary gulp slid down the man's throat, his limbs shaking. "Well, it's been an honor, adviser." He made a farewell gesture with a flick of his wrist.

"The honor has been mine," Ignis bowed his head a little, his eyes closing. The shield's sad smile was the last thing he saw; the orders were shouted, and he felt the pain in his chest that swept him away instantly.

* * *

It burned. The concoction burned as it coursed through his veins. Prompto was no stranger to pain but this! This was unlike any he had ever experienced before. It was like his insides were being torn apart by millions of white-hot needles, like lava had been pumped straight into his system. It scorched him from the inside.

He had screamed his throat sore; what now came out were raspy, interrupted, hoarse whines of agony as his overloaded body convulsed against the restraints. The darkness tickled his consciousness, teasing him, tempting him with the relief the surrender would bless him with. "No." It was a sigh, strained and hopeless. 'No!' The darkness didn't mind his struggle. It was patient, it could wait. It knew he couldn't hold on forever.

.

.

.

 _"Where are you taking me?!" Prompto struggled against the men walking him briskly. Humans this time, not magitek. "Let go!"_

 _"Shut up, kid," the older-looking of the two grunted, but it sounded almost bored rather than irritated. "We're supposed to take you in unharmed. Don't make me go against that." A clear warning, although voiced nonchalantly. It went ignored as the young man threw another struggle, just to smite them if nothing else. It was rewarded with a smack of a gun butt onto his temple._

 _"Agh!" The pain exploded behind his eyes, his knees buckled a little as his mind flashed white. His limbs were moving, but Prompto didn't dare rely on his legs being able to support him, not now. Not when the ground and sky looked all the same to him and his head swirled. Dragged rather than walked, Prompto's hazy vision slowly cleared up as the drumming in his skull died down. And the tall, almost ominous-looking citadel ascending over the city took shape._

 _Taking a quick assessment of their direction, his insides twisted as it became painfully clear that that aversive monument was where they were headed. "Uugh, wha-what is that place?" The older man snorted a small laugh, but the guard that had remained silent glanced at him knowingly. There was an undercurrent of sorrow in that look, like that knowledge had been something disturbing, and all the warning bells went off in the blond. 'Don't tell me…!' He gulped; he had a hunch, a terrifying, paralyzing hunch, and the misplaced emphathy had Prompto reeling on his rails. "What is happening?! What is that place?!" His attempts of trashing had resumed._

 _"Cut it, kid," the younger soldier spoke up for the first time. "Unless you want Holand here to bust your arm up."_

 _"Stop it! Let me go!_ _You can't…!"_

 _"I said, shut up!" Prompto let out a yelp as his head was yanked back roughly, almost cutting his airway._

 _"No… please, you can't take me there! I don't- agh!" came out as panic, strangled wheezing before the punch landed. He was jerked forward forcibly, the grip on his arms crushing. 'No. Wait! I don't… I don't belong there!'_

 _"No!"_

 _"No!"_

.

.

.

Prompto felt light. Gentleness graced his body, wrapping him into a warm, soft cocoon. He was drifting under water, weightless and relaxed. The world around him was pearlecence and dancing light patterns. It was nice. It was calm. 'Wait.' The surface slipped further and further away, the world of noise and exhaustion and light as the water dimmed as he descended and wait! 'Wait! No!' The darkness begun to spread over his vision, the glimmering light of the surface gradually disappearing behind it as it lost the battle.

'No! No wait, this's wrong!'

A reflex drew in a shaken intake as it all came back to him; the lifelessness flooded his lungs, making him heave as he fought the burn and tried to pry his limbs back to life. 'No! Not this! Must… beat it. Must get out!' Struggling to force his legs to obey, Prompto wriggled towards the fading light, the dim waters around him condensing into full-bodied darkness, cold, consuming, lifeless, and the blond fought the panic as tendrils like hands reached out of it, reached to wrap around his waist, his legs, pulling him back in. 'No! Please no…!'

The surface was close, so tantalizingly close. Not but a couple of kicks. 'Let go of me!' The harder he kicked, trying to shake himself free of the icy grip, the more tendrils whisked out to grab him. He gasped involuntarily, pulling more of the void in as the surface grew more distant. 'No...!'

A scream tore out from his abused throat as Prompto broke the surface; a hand instinctively gripped the fabric over his erratically beating heart, holding on for dear life. The blond slumped onto the floor in an exhausted heap, panting, his mouth dripping saliva as the last whisks of darkness faded into the background, the battle won, his person his own again, mind, body and soul.

It was getting harder and harder to resist it. He had been able to push it back, for now, but as Prompto tasted the copper in his mouth, took note of his bitten lip and the throbbing hurt in his head, it became obvious at what cost. With a small whine he pulled his knees to his chest, curling into fetal position.

Prompto was afraid. A small whimper escaped him, a sound like a dry sob. How long would it be until the darkness grew stronger than him? He didn't dare think of an answer. He could feel its constant presence in the back of his mind, caressing his consciousness with false comfort while it whispered dark things into his ears. Dreadful things. Dreams of blood and pain and death. The voice grew louder after each hallucination. How long would it be until Prompto was lost under it? For all he knew, each struggle for control could be the last.

The blue eyes cracked open, to distinguish shadows from each other to form shapes. There wasn't much to look at. The washbowl, a sad excuse for a toilet, and what little he made out of the room on the other side of the door with a peep hole. From somewhere bellowed the screams of others. Others like him who had their souls slowly stolen from them as their lives withered.

He had begged for death. All pride cast aside, the gunner had begged them to please just kill him before there would be nothing left. Before he would be nothing but a soulless monster. He wanted them to kill him before they killed his heart.

.

.

.

He would have screamed for mercy if he could have. It hurt! It hurt so much! But now his traitorous shell of body let out nothing of his inward suffering as the concoction was forced into his veins again.

He lied limply on the operation table, an absent look on his face. The sky blue behind the half-closed lids had dimmed into dirty blue grey, the shine in them faded. His skin had paled, taken a light greyish hue, and now the flow of the dark substance assaulting him stood out clearly as it painted a ghostly, morbid spider web of veins over the ashen pale skin as it spread throughout his system.

Prompto felt like his skull was split into two, the halves pulling apart. A scream after another voiceless scream shrilled in his mind. His heart was about to be crushed! And the voices in his head, the whispers of the dread, they had never been this loud before. The darkness was practically purring as it stroked against his mind. It wouldn't be long now.

'Nngh!' They cut him just to see if he reacted. He didn't. Not even a blink on that relaxed face, the whites of his eyes matted and glossless as moisture had dried from his vacant eyes. Over his chest, the spider web came together to form an almost solid dark purple bruise over his…

Heart! His heart thumped furiously against the choke hold, suffocating as the grip tightened, the freezing feeling chaining him down as he felt, heard how the beats grew more shallow. Darkness flooded in now, slithering up his arms and legs, latching onto him like a swarm of leeches. He tried to struggle, tried to wriggle away, but Prompto could feel his strength draining out of him in par with his vaning heartbeats. As if amused by his resilience, the dark voices snuggled to chuckle into his ear, whisper the words of his doom over and over.

'No… please...'

The tendrils curled around his waist tightly; from there they crept up his belly, his chest almost in a teasing fashion. Like a spider approaching its webbed prey, slow and savoring and oh so deliberate. One last strangled, weak moan of pain was drawn out when the dark limbs wrapped themselves around his neck.

Struggling was futile, but Prompto tried anyway. Mere jerks, panic-induced and pointless. His horror was muffled as dark limbs snaked themselves between his lips, down his throat. He would have screamed if he could have. His lungs burned under the freezing touch of the void as suffocation had him reeling. The darkness crept over his face, engulfing him with fraudulent caresses and a choir of whispering as he was plunged under the murky waters.

On the operating table, the shell sat motionlessly under the clinical light of the theater. The dim eyes didn't even blink as dark concoction begun to seep out from where there used to be a heart.

* * *

 **AN2: So yeah.**

 **I can't stress enough that this is just an alternate ending, none of this matters to the original canon of Heart of a Tool, for obvious reasons, lol. I'm currently writing the first chapters of the second part, so it's definitely not going to end with Prompto ending up being turned into an MT. It hurt me the most to write that. I dunno, I always thought that being turned into a demonized machine would be horrible but it hurt nonetheless.**

 **The Tool series :**

 **Heart of a Tool (part 1)**

 **Heart of a Tool: End of Days**

 **Mind of a Tool (part 2)  
**

 **Life of a Tool (part 3)**


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